


Hook You Up

by princessofmind



Series: That boy is a problem [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gothlux, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hazy with smoke, and the lights have been dimmed, but you can still pick the guy out because he sticks out like a sore thumb.  It’s already easy enough to pick out the public school kids from your private academy classmates, but this kid looks like someone dragged him along out of pity and then ditched him on the couch when it became blatantly fucking obvious that he didn’t fit in.  Red-dyed tips, tight black jeans, a shirt with some band logo on it that hugged every curve of his skinny chest.</p><p>“I really don’t think I’m his type,” you say, taking another swig from your cup, “on account’a the fact that I’m not wearing black lipstick, a mini skirt, and fishnets.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hook You Up

“That dude’s been checking you out all night.”

You arch an eyebrow over the rim of your plastic cup, lip curling in a decidedly self-satisfied smirk. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, because I’m sure a lot of dudes have been checking me out.”

Roxy mirrors your expression almost perfectly, but her smirk is less self-satisfied and more playful. “Mister Hot Topic wallflower over there on the couch. Hasn’t moved, but I’m _pretty_ sure he’s been staring at you since we got here.”

Hooking your fingers in your belt loop, you look over your shoulder, doing your best to look disinterested and not like you’re searching someone out as your gaze roams over the dimly-lit room. It’s hazy with smoke, and the lights have been dimmed, but you can still pick the guy out because he sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s already easy enough to pick out the public school kids from your private academy classmates, but this kid looks like someone dragged him along out of pity and then ditched him on the couch when it became blatantly fucking obvious that he didn’t fit in. Red-dyed tips, tight black jeans, a shirt with some band logo on it that hugged every curve of his skinny chest.

“I really don’t think I’m his type,” you say, taking another swig from your cup, “on account’a the fact that I’m not wearing black lipstick, a mini skirt, and fishnets.”

There’s something almost nervous about his posture, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how his eyes keep darting back and forth around the room before settling on you again. Usually, goths don’t tickle your fancy even a little. They’re all dark doom and gloom with horrible fashion sense and way too much time spent on trying to be special snowflakes, and you just don’t have time to deal with that shit. But the guy on the couch is almost unfairly your type; tall, skinny, and with just enough definition to his muscles that it makes you lick your lips.

Something that he clearly sees, because his Adam’s apple jumps and the tips of his ears flush a shade of red so dark you can see it from clear across the room.

“I see your point,” you concede, making Roxy giggle in delight. She knows you have a bit of a thing for virgins, and this guy was wearing his proverbial v-card on his chest like a scarlet letter.

Tossing back the rest of your drink, you pass the cup off to Roxy so she can stack it with hers, adjusting your jeans and shirt fussily, because you still want to look rumpled, but artfully so. Tucking the empty cups under her arm, she teases your hair until a few locks have worked free of the gel and curl loosely about your face, the rest still swept back in the elegant, well-maintained style you work so hard to keep up. You turn for her, once, and she smacks your ass with another giggle and a clear thumbs up to go put the moves on this poor unsuspecting kid.

There’s music playing, something base-heavy that resonates in your chest and words you can’t make out over the crowds of people, but that isn’t the part that’s important. Really, you just need the beat, and your steps fall in with the rhythm as you make your way across the room to the couch. People move out of the way easily, some without looking, some with knowing smirks or grins on their face; they know what you’re about.

The kid on the couch doesn’t notice you at first, but you can pinpoint the exact moment that he does, because his eyes go all wide behind his glasses and he casts quick, almost unsure looks to both sides of him as if to check for any more inviting prospects that might have caught your eye. But you smile and make clear eye contact, and his throat jumps again in what looks suspiciously like a gulp, cheeks flushed as red as the tips of his ears, and hell _yes_ , this was so on.

Trying to be sexy was a delicate balance, you’d found, because unlike a girl, you didn’t have the assets for this kind of seduction. No boobs, no long hair, but you still have a damn nice figure and a great ass and know how to use it, how to walk just _so_ to get that hip wiggle without looking ridiculous, how to turn your head, how to hold your shoulders. It was downright embarrassing how much time you spent practicing in the mirror, but it’s so fucking worth it to see the way his lips part, how he doesn’t even try to pretend like he isn’t watching your every motion rapturously.

Of course, his eyes practically bug out of his head when you reach the couch and drop to your knees in front of him, fingers starting at his ankles and trailing up his shins to grasp his knees and push his legs apart. You pause there, just for a moment, looking up at him from under your lowered eyelashes, to give him a chance to push you away or tell you to fuck off. But he just looks down at you, chest rising and falling rapidly as that violent flush works it’s way down his neck and his eyes burn. There’s already a noticeable bulge in the front of his jeans.

Fuck, if you weren’t in a room full of people, you’d blow him right there on the couch.

You lean forward, brushing your cheek against the inside of his thigh just above your hand, and you can feel the muscles in his leg tense under your fingers. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your skin as you lean forward, like you’re going to nuzzle right into his crotch, but you pull up at the last second, moving up his body in a carefully controlled movement that you lean into and ends with you nipping just behind his jaw. It makes him shudder, a full-body movement that almost pushes him against you, and his muscles are taut as a bowstring when you kiss the same spot and tease the skin with your tongue.

Slowly, you ease yourself into his lap, drawing one leg up to rest against his hip on the couch as you move from his neck to his ear, taking the lobe between your teeth and tugging with enough force that his head lolls back. When your other leg frames his body, you stay up away from him, close enough that he can feel how warm you are without actually touching, and his hands shift in a way that makes you think he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to touch you back. You kiss back down from his ear to his neck, which he so kindly offered to you, and you can taste how fast his pulse is thudding under your tongue along with the sharpness of sweat. It’s more than a little enticing, and you linger, digging in your teeth and sucking.

“Fuck,” he gasps, arching, and the transparent desire in his voice has you pressing him back into the cushions with your body, grinding your hips against his in a slow, showy, circular motion that offers no real relief. But he still groans, audibly, fingers twitching and fluttering on either side of your legs before flying to grasp your hips when you continue to repeat the move in time with the music.

“Sensitive, aren’tcha,” you murmur, chuckling when your words just make him shudder again, gripping you convulsively tighter. His hands feel good against your hips, not holding you tight enough to restrict your movements so you’re free to keep moving, pressing hard against his dick but never lingering for long, just sliding as well as the rasping contact of denim will let you and continuing to circle leisurely, like you could rub against him all night and not run out of steam.

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, lower lip caught between his teeth until he gasps for breath, and his skin is so pale where it isn’t flushed with blood. There’s a faint trembling in his muscles, and he leans into you when you card your fingers through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. It seems like guys always spend so much time pretending to be disinterested, you spend half the goddamn evening trying to provoke even the smallest reaction. But this guy. This nerdy-looking goth kid wasn’t even trying to hide it, was meeting every touch you gave him and all but begging for more with his reactions. It was getting you so hot under the collar it should be fucking embarrassing.

Carefully, you slide his glasses off his face and hook them in the vee of your shirt, and when he blinks his eyes open in response, the color of them is a punch in the gut you weren’t expecting. One blue, one brown, both glazed with unmistakable desire, both shuttering closed when you grind against him more fully, really feeling his erection pressing against yours. You suck at his neck, closing your teeth on either side of his Adam’s apple, and he fucking _whimpers_ and writhes in uncoordinated pleasure.

You stand abruptly, and there’s no word for the look on his face but crushed.

It means he’s utterly unprepared for when you haul him to his feet, and his knees almost buckle underneath him, causing him to stumble and lean his weight on you. He’s almost as skinny as you, though, so you have no trouble supporting him for those few seconds, tugging him after you once he regains his balance. There’s a few cat calls from people in the room (one of which sounds suspiciously like Roxy), but you ignore them as you navigate through the crowd in the living room and out into the hallway. You aren’t friends with the host of this particular party, but all the big houses like this have similar layouts, and you find a guest bedroom on your first try. Score.

The guy behind you has at least recovered his wits enough to close the door behind him, and you waste no time in pressing him up against it, slipping your thigh between his legs and nipping at the sharp line of his jaw. His hands grip convulsively at the back of your shirt, head falling back against the wood with a barely audible thump, and he’s already grinding down against your leg like his desperation had only increased during your brief trip.

“You down for this?” you ask, the words murmured against his skin.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, and you can feel the hum in his throat against your lips as he speaks. All it makes you want to do is make him moan again. “What’s your name?”

He has a lisp.

It’s unexpected enough that you pull back to look at him, and he looks absolutely horrified. Speech impediments aren’t things you usually find endearing, but he has such a nice voice, and it just clashes with the gothic, bad-boy wanna-be image and compliments the fumbling virgin aspect to the point that you’re a little pissed at how you simultaneously think he’s the hottest thing you’ve pinned against the wall in months and also irrefutably fucking adorable.

That’s probably why you smile and peck him on the lips. “Eridan.”

“Eridan,” he repeats, and fuck, do you like the way your name sounds coming from his mouth. “I’m Sollux.”

And that’s quite enough of that, so you press up against the bulge in his pants with your thigh and kiss him, and it makes him moan loudly into your mouth. His tongue is clumsy against yours, but unlike his tentative hands, he’s not hesitant as he tastes the back of your teeth and brushes against the roof of your mouth in a way that’s almost ticklish. But he tastes like rum, warm and heavy, and it sends warmth pooling in your stomach to finally feel him becoming an active participant.

It means you get a bit distracted, feeling his fingers trailing up your back, tracing your spine through your shirt and rubbing against the soft skin at the nape of your neck before carding through your hair, his teeth nipping at your tongue just softly enough to make you hum a pleased noise. By this point you would normally be on your knees, but he’s cradling your head in his fingers and exploring your mouth, each kiss gaining confidence until you’re tugging his hips a bit lower (fucker has way more height on you than you thought) so you can grind your erection against him.

When you release his lips, parted and flushed already, he ducks down to press shy, trembling kisses to your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin and you’re so hard it almost hurts. You were kind of hoping to at least get him on the bed, but it’s not looking like you’re going to be able to let go of him for that long. So instead you fumble at his belt, his breath harsh against your skin as you ease the faux leather free of the buckle, popping the button of his jeans and drawing the zipper down.

He’s leaning on you hard, one hand still gripping your hair and the other having found it’s way up under your shirt to rest against the small of your back, mouthing senselessly at your collarbone as you pull his dick out from the slit in his boxers. You can’t even be assed to push his jeans down any further. He’s hard and already damp at the tip, and he whimpers when you stroke him once, hands gripping you convulsively tighter as he bucks into the contact.

Carefully, you tilt his hips forward a bit more, pushing his torso more firmly back against the door before you drop to your knees, nuzzling his erection and looking up at him to gauge his reaction. Sollux is leaning heavily against the wood, hands pushed flat on either side of his body, chest rising and falling rapidly and face flushed an almost painful shade of red, but there’s no disguising the raw desire in his eyes, in the way he draws his lower lip between his teeth as he looks down at you. Licking the tip makes his hands jerk before pressing against the door even more forcefully, and he so clearly doesn’t want to do the wrong thing, is so focused on it that you’re suspicious that he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you (and that does funny things to your already swollen heart), that you have to take one of his hands in your own and guide it to the back of your head before he loses his fingers in your hair.

But it’s so soft, like the way he cradled your head when you were kissing, not harsh and demanding.

You reach down to palm your own erection, because you’re in serious danger of coming in your pants, and apparently that’s right up his alley. His hips push forward, and he moans, loudly, and holy shit his expression looks so hungry it sends a lance of heat right through your middle. As quickly as you can without hurting yourself, you unbutton and unzip and wiggle your skinnies down far enough to pull your own dick out, stroking yourself and thumbing the head just the right way, breath shuddering against his skin.

“Fuck,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair as he stares down at you, unabashedly watching as you touch yourself and suck the head of his dick into your mouth, tonguing at the head as your free hand comes up to hold the base. You can’t look up at him like this, but you can practically feel his eyes boring into you, can feel the way his hand tugs at your hair whenever your fist slides down and he can see the flushed tip framed by your pale fingers.

You want to belt his hands to the headboard and sit on his stomach while you jerk off, make him powerless to do anything else but watch.

“Eridan,” he moans, and you squeeze yourself tighter, dipping down further on his dick, and his hips jerk forward _hard_. “Shit, fuck, I’m gonna-”

And you weren’t expecting him to last long, with his obvious inexperience, but his thighs are trembling, hips thrusting his dick in and out of your mouth in these wonderful, sporadic, needy motions, and you’re honestly not that far behind him. So you swallow him down to the base, answering his moan with one of your own as you start stroking yourself faster, palming the head on the upstroke.

He practically shrieks when he comes, whole body taught as a bowstring, fingers gripping your hair almost painfully tight as he writhes against the door and empties himself in your throat. You have plenty of practice swallowing, but your attention is hardly on that; instead, you’re straining your neck and your eyes to try and watch him, at the way his eyes shutter like they want to close but he can’t bring himself to look away, face scrunched in ecstasy as his lower lip pouty and swollen from where he’d been biting it.

You suck him clean before pulling off, giving his dick one last affectionate kiss to the base before ducking your head against his hip, gasping for breath as you jerk yourself off. But his hand tilts your head back so you can’t hide your face against the fabric of his jeans, mismatched eyes boring down into yours as he watches. Your pupils are blown with desire, lips flushed and tender from going down on him and your hair is a debauched mess, but he looks enraptured, working to catch his breath as you tremble and try to jerk up into your hand.

His other hand rises to your face, thumbing at your lip, and you just have to stroke yourself one more time, hard, before you’re coming and moaning and getting jizz all over your hand and some on your jeans but you rather resolutely don’t give a fuck. You can’t remember the last time you had sex this good, and he didn’t even touch you.

For a long moment, neither of you move. He stays leaned against the door, and you stay with your head resting against his hip, trying to catch your breath. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, and you back up enough that he doesn’t end up in the mess you made of yourself. You wobble a bit when you get to your feet, but you manage to make it to the bathroom and clean yourself off without falling and braining yourself on the tile. He doesn’t look like he’s moved when you come back out, but he’s zipped his pants back up and tugs you down for a kiss when you get close enough. Which is yet another surprising thing, because most boys won’t go near your mouth after you suck them off.

Deftly, you fish his phone out of his pocket, flicking through screens until you can enter your number in. Then you remove his glasses from where they were hooked on the collar of your shirt, setting them smartly on his nose and smiling at how he still looks blissfully unaware and dazed and post-orgasmic.

“Call me sometime, hm?” you say, kissing him just behind his ear and then once more on the lips. He reciprocates eagerly.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers, and the way he’s looking at you makes you hope that he’ll be calling you up again within the next week.

Roxy is going to be getting that new handbag she’d been eyeing, because this literally couldn’t have gone any better if you’d tried.


End file.
